Torchwood: The End is Where
by PlanetDestroyer-CarpetSlippers
Summary: Three months after the deaths of Tosh and Owen, the team of Torchwood Three is slowly beginning to recover from the loss of two colleagues and friends, but nothing ever stays the same and the times are once more changing...
1. Chapter 1

**TORCHWOOD:**

**THE END IS WHERE**

**PART ONE**

**Chapter 1**

July 2009

Somehow, it always came back to coffee.

Sighing, Ianto Jones, dropped the tub of Maxwell House Rich & Full Coffee Granules – the best coffee for the best value, according to Associated Content – into the basket. All he needed now was a two-liter bottle of semi-skimmed and that was the weekly Torchwood shop done. Order-in pizza would take care of the rest.

Time had been that Ianto would have taken affront at the suggestion of using instant coffee, but, ever since Owen and Tosh… well, the perfect cappuccino just didn't seem quite so important. Owen had said it himself before he died – well, after he died – the first time – before he died again. Ianto was more than just a tea boy now.

For one thing, he was shagging the boss.

With that pleasant if sordid thought in mind, Ianto, en route to the Tesco tills, walked straight into someone stood in the middle of the shop floor. She, it was as she, as things transpired, mid-30s, a short bob of orange hair, pretty in a non-descript sort of way, spun off one shelf, collided with the other and ended up sprawled on the lino.

In a manner perhaps characteristically Welsh, Ianto swore, vehemently.

"Shit".

Then

"I mean, sorry. Jesus. So sorry".

Helping the still apparently dazed woman off the shop floor, Ianto stepped back, hands clasped, bowing compulsively. Christ. He got enough odd looks as it was, parading round the supermarket on a Sunday afternoon, a handsome, smooth-faced, cleft-chinned Welshman dressed in a suit-and-tails combo.

"You're Ianto Jones".

The statement came as something of a surprise.

"Am I? Oh, yes, how do you…"

"I know you."

Oh, God, if anything the whole situation had gotten even more embarrassing. Not only had he, Ianto Jones, knocked over a complete stranger while shopping it then transpired he in fact knew them, well enough that they would recognize him, Ianto Jones, on the street, at least if they were bumped into by him, he who absolutely no clue who they were.

Feigning delighted recognition, "Ah, yes, of course… um…" What was the most popular women's name in the UK? Olivia? No, but that was in 2008. She had to be at least thirty.

Then

"You don't know me".

"Oh".

He didn't know her and yet somehow she knew him. The crazy lady knew Ianto Jones. Ianto Jones did not know the crazy lady. A puzzle perhaps best left for when away from the garden implements section. Lots of things you can do with a trowel.

"Well, it's been lovely seeing you –"

A friendly smile. A polite nod. A familiar but not intrusive touch on the shoulder as he was moving past, then… a choking noise from behind him. Ianto turned.

"Oh, shit".

The crazy lady, a moniker somewhat lacking in dignity but not entirely unfair, was back on the floor again. But this time she was convulsing, eyes rolled back, muscles taut in agony, foaming at the mouth. Ianto was at her side in an instant.

"Somebody! Help!"

He tried rolling her onto her side, to put her in the recovery position. She thrashed wildly, as if an electric current was surging through her. Her attempted to place his tie in her mouth, to stop her biting off her tongue. Her gnashing teeth tore through the silk, staining the jagged edge with blood. She spasmed and shook and screamed in silence.

Finally, she stopped, her tense form relaxing suddenly. Dry-eyed and calm-faced, still lying on her side, she turned to Ianto, matter-of-factly.

"There's not much time left in the world".

And then she died.

It was only then, as he sat on the chequered lino beside a dead woman whose name he did not know, in a state of shocked serenity, that Ianto realized he had forgotten the milk.

***

"The dead woman's name is Caitlin McNamara, age 32, married, no children. Address registered as #27 Dylan Street, Cardiff Bay".

They were sat in the conference room now, ultra-modern chrome-and-wood, gathered around a long oval table with room for twice their number, two seats in particular pointedly empty.

Captain Jack Harkness, chisel-jawed and raven-haired, shirt and braces, their All-American man of action, stood at the front of the room. A screen behind him showed two photos, both of Caitlin McNamara, one alive and trying not to smile, presumably from a passport, the other dead and beyond caring, taken moments before in the morgue.

"Jack, how exactly did she die?"

That was Gwen, Gwen Williams nee Cooper, Bardic-voiced and doe-eyed jacket and jeans, the Welsh heart and soul of the team, concern evident in her voice.

"Well, the way Ianto described it, it not unlike a grand mal seizure. In her bloodwork I found traces of an unknown compound, presumably some sort of toxin".

"Thank you very much, Doctor Jones".

Captain Jack, mocking, all the affection in the world.

Martha, mocha-skinned and fine-boned, leather jacket and matching trousers, the newest member but no less experienced, head titled in an imitation of humility.

"You're very welcome, Captain Harkness".

Doctor Martha Jones, retorting, would-be flirtation in every syllable.

"And, Ianto", Jack, turning to his current beau, closest to him, "She said she knew you?"

"Yes, but the weird thing was, she said I didn't know her".

"Some sort of stalker?" Gwen's suggestion, nothing vindictive about it, offered with a shrug.

"No", Ianto's brow knitted in consternation, "I don't think so. There wasn't anything… salacious about her".

"Unlike me?"

A sly wink from Jack, that perfect smile. Ianto blushed. Gwen laughed, punching him on shoulder affectionately. Martha just stood in the doorway, eyebrow raised, arms crossed, watching them ironically. For the first time in a long while everything seemed to be getting back to normal. Well, normal according to the definition of a team of paranormal experts working to protect the world from alien invasion from within a secret high-tech base concealed under Roald Dahl Plass.

"It lists Caitlin's husband as a Craig McNamara. I should probably go visit him, find out if he knows anything, make sure he knows –"

"Alright". Jack to Gwen, a nod of agreement, "I'll join you. Ianto, you go through the dead woman's history, see if there's anything out of the usual. Owen, do a full autopsy report –"

An awkward silence descended. A few lingering seconds passed. Then

"Jack, um, is it possible you could grab me a birthday card while you're out. It's Rhiannon's thirtieth tomorrow and I didn't have a chance to grab her one, what with the whole…"

"Horrific stranger death."

"Yeah."

What followed could be termed an abrupt exit on all counts.

***

It was the height of a Cardiff summer morning when Jack and Gwen emerged from the rundown tourist shop, about as warm and sunny as the south-west coast of Britain is ever likely to get, yet still Jack had managed to don his thick woolen overcoat en route to the vehicle.

As he slid into the driver's seat and Gwen joined him in the passengers, she turned to her boss.

"Do you ever take that bloody thing off?"

"Why?"

The key turned, the ignition clicked, the engine thrummed.

"Well, for one thing, it's really quite hot".

The SUV pulled out of the private space from the narrow back alley along which it was parked and pulled out into the noonday traffic.

"Gwen, you think this is warm? I've been to Mars".

"Jack, I'm not an idiot. Despite it being called 'the red planet', I happen to know that Mars is bloody cold".

"Pfft! Scientists: what do they know".

"Jack… have you really been to Mars?"

"What do you think?"

"God, attacked by Daleks and still as sarky as ever."

"Been there, done that, got immortal."

"What?"

"Never mind."

They rambled on for the first couple of miles before slumping into a relaxed quietness. It was only when the van came to a stop at the traffic lights that Jack turned to Gwen and asked

"So, you and Rhys..?"

"Are fine thank you very much".

"Ooh, that's a bit pointed. Everything going okay in the marital bed".

Walloping him playfully in response, Gwen shook her head fitfully, exhaling her fringe from over her face. Then, a thought.

Guileful, "So, ah, how are you and Ianto doing?"

A beat. "Fine, thanks". Feigned nonchalance.

"You've been going out, what, six months now", gleeful.

"About that".

"Ah, young love. So, how is the happy couple".

Jack just groaned in response, slouching against the wheel.

"What?"

As soon as the lights turned, Jack hit the pedal.

Again, "What?"

"It's just… I don't like the word 'couple'. It seems so… restrictive. Numerically".

"Pair? Item? Ménage a trois… no, wait, that's three".

"Folie a deux?"

"Cute".

Jack leant in closer to Gwen, "I'm happy to make it a ménage a trois if –"

"Oh, no. One's plenty of romance for me, thank you very much".

Their arrival at the location on Dylan Street cut the conversation short. As the both undid their seatbelts, Jack turned to Gwen, met her gaze levelly, "To be continued".

"Yeah, in your dreams. Pervert".

Standing outside #27, a gold letter against a red door, Gwen rang the bell. Footfalls came from inside the house, then, a moment later, the door opened inwards to reveal a scholarly-looking man, circular wireframe spectacles and a mop of reddish blond hair.

"Hello?"

Jack stepped forward, smiling, friendly-professional mode, "Hi. Craig McNamara?"

"That's right."

Gwen intervened, "We're from… from the government. We're here about your wife".

Confusion flashed across the man's face, "My wife?"

As Gwen seemingly worked up the courage to break the news, Craig turned back into the house. Gwen opened her mouth to speak, an expression of regret foreshadowing her words, when

"Hi. Can I help you?"

Mrs. Caitlin McNamara, age 32, married, no children, alive and well at home, standing on the doorstep, gazing earnestly at her unexpected guests. Gwen's jaw dropped. Jack merely blinked.

"Mrs. McNamara?"

"Yes."

"Mrs. Caitlin McNamara?"

"Yes."

"Ah". A pause. "Can we come in?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

It was ten past one on a Monday afternoon, and Jack and Gwen were sat on a comfy sofa in a suburban home, turning down repeated offers of tea and biscuits from an overexcited, supposedly dead housewife and avoiding questions from a rightfully concerned, self-employed businessman.

They had introduced themselves by their real names, albeit as census takers with a particular interest in Mrs. McNamara. When Jack explained that some idiot had lost the details on a train, Gwen barely managed to suppress a snort of laughter. The husband, on the other hand, found it not quite so amusing, though Jack was able to allay his fears with some private words and repeated showings of the relevant ID.

"Is there anything to be worried about?"

"No, Mr. McNamara. It's all just routine", Gwen assured him brightly. It was what she did. For some reason, the mere presence of Jack seemed to make men a lot more nervous. It might have been the Webley Mark VI revolver holstered inside his jacket. It might also have been the fact that Caitlin McNamara couldn't seem to take her eyes of him. It wasn't an unusual response.

"Are you sure I can't convince you to take a cup of tea, Mr. Harkness?"

"Captain, but call me Jack".

Gwen groaned inwardly. It was difficult enough assuaging Mr. McNamara's fears already without Jack turning on the charm and making Mrs. McNamara giggle like a hormonal teen. Still, as Jack conjured up a simple but believable excuse as to their presence, the need to take a DNA sample from his wife, to cross-reference her fingerprints, making a complete lie sound utterly plausible, whilst briskly brushing through the details, Gwen had to admit his silver-tongue did have its uses.

As Gwen took a swab of the sometime dead woman's saliva, inserting it into the portable analyzer, before rolling her hands across the electronic scan plate, Jack set about asking Mrs. McNamara a series of questions.

Beginning with standards such as "Where were you born?" and "What was your mother's maiden name?" the Q&E became increasingly otherwise bizarre, introducing articles such as "Have you ever been witness to UFO activity?" and "Have you ever manifested latent psychic ability, including clairvoyance or telekinesis?"

Fortunately, within half an hour, apparently satisfied at the legitimacy of the civil servants, or else just bored by the drawn-out investigative procedure, Craig retired to the upstairs study. Somewhere along the line, Jack gave in to the inevitable and agreed to a cup, coffee rather than tea, black, no sugar.

The blinking red diode on the scanner turned green and a confirmation appeared on the miniaturized screen. The DNA of the woman sat in the armchair before them, sipping her way through a mug of tea larger than Gwen would have thought possible for such a diminutive figure, was indeed that of Caitlin McNamara, at least taken against the body currently slabbed up in the Torchwood autopsy room. The fingerprints, being referenced against the national database, not just from criminal records though. A long-term UNIT project, they pretty much resorted to rooting around in rubbish bins, trying, by any means possible, to get at least one usable print for every British citizen. Gwen shook her head automatically at the thought. Sometimes national security seemed more underhand than the possible threat itself.

Gwen tilted the screen towards Jack. He nodded.

"So, Mrs. McNamara…"

"I said, call me Caitlin."

"Alright, Caitlin. Do you happen to have an identical twin sister…"

The scanner bleeped.

"Who shares the same name."

He glanced at the screen.

"… And the same fingerprints…"

He trailed off, frowning. Mrs. McNamara, Caitlin, stared at him expectantly. All of a sudden, Jack rose from the settee, offering his hand across the living room.

"Mrs. McNamara, thanks very much for you time."

Almost disappointed, she stood to shook it.

"Is that it?"

Gwen, on her feet, took the initiative.

"Yes, thanks so much, Mrs. McNamara… Caitlin."

She turned to Jack, an expression of fixed enthusiasm somewhat failing to mask her annoyance.

"I suppose we'd best be going then."

A few moments later the door closed behind them and Jack began a brisk walk back to the vehicle. Gwen waited till he had fastened his seatbelt to lose her temper.

"Well..?"

"Well, what?"

Well, what the bloody hell was that about?"

"Gwen, she didn't have the first idea about this doppelganger of hers."

"So instead, you decided it'd be best if we made an impromptu exit and left a confused women wondering why two 'civil servants' spent the better part of an hour badgering her about aliens and spatial anomalies? God, I bet her husbands going to throw a wobbly, probably call his MP to complain."

"No, he won't."

"Any why's that?"

"Because I dropped a Retcon into her cup of tea when she left the room to make me a coffee."

With a flourish, Jack started the SUV.

"And what about her husband?"

Reaching into his coat pocket, Jack drew out a tiny aerosol can, bright red, held between his forefinger and thumb.

"Airborne Retcon. Something Tosh was working on. Works on skin contact. I got him with it on our way in. He probably thought I was being a bit careless with my aftershave".

Gwen paused an instant as they turned the corner. Then, almost resentfully,

"You are good."

Jack's grin seemed to eat up his face.

"I am damn good."

***

"Pizza's here."

Rising customarily from his perch on the desk, Ianto raised his hands in surrender.

"I'll get it."

The others just stared at him expectantly, puppy dog eyes all the way. Tea boy, my arse, Ianto thought to himself grumpily, en route to the back door, general dogsbody is more like it. Everything from fetching the pizza to wrangling pterodactyls.

Passing through the huge vault door – many things were possible at Torchwood, making a low-key entrance wasn't one of them – he came to a brick wall.

Ianto pulled the lever and the revolving wall… well, revolved. He never got quite used to that. It always seemed a bit Scooby Doo. "And I would have gotten away with it too if it weren't for you meddling kids!" Ianto snorted, then, pursing his lips, face hardening, determined to at least give the façade of professionability, he passed through into the Torchwood antechamber.

Entering a small room that resembled a rundown tourist information booth, the doorbell buzzed furiously again. Ianto straightened his tie and went to open the door. Ah… dashing back quickly, he tripped the switch and the wall flattened out once more. That would have been awkward.

He opened the door. Standing there on the boardwalk, his scooter parked just behind him, a short, skinny guy with a scruffy goatee, in an anorak, was eyeing him cynically.

"Sorry", Ianto began, "I was… out the back."

Peering through the door, the pizza man gazed around incredulously at the tiny space, no other exits readily apparent. The customer himself was a bit of a variation on the usual as well: a tall, strapping Welshman, wavy brown hair, dark eyes, broad chin and large forehead, staffing a public amenity while dressed in a pinstripe designer suit. Who apparently ate an awful lot of pizza.

Sighing, the cynic of the delivery world, "Whatever, man. That's £22.57."

Reaching into his suit pocket, Ianto drew out a leather wallet and drew out the requisite bills. A quintet of five pounds notes, and, yes, he did want change, not his money, back in the kitty, thank you very much. The guy glared at him, and, sorting through his pockets, thrust the pizzas into Ianto's arms, and practically threw a handful of change at him.

Feeling slightly guilty, Ianto pulled the door shut. A few moments later he emerged back into the Hub proper. Not long after that, now gathered in Jack's office, the four of them tore into the meal expertly. Still, Ianto noted, the demolition job went down nowhere near as rapidly as when Tosh was around. That woman, petite though she was, could get through an XL Meat Feast in five minutes flat. Ianto knew. He had timed her once.

Taking a huge bite from her Hawaiian, Gwen turned to Martha, mouth still full.

"So, how are you and Thomas doing?"

Martha smiled unselfconsciously.

"Really good, thanks. He's been back a while now."

"How long have you two been going out a now?"

"About fourteen months. Not counting the Year that –"

She fell hastily silent, staring guilty at the floor for an instant, before

"He asked me to marry him."

"What?!"

Biting her lip abashedly, Martha glanced around at her gathered colleagues – Gwen, cross-legged on the carpet; Jack, sat at his desk; Ianto, leaning against it – solemn-faced, then, she laughed and her eyes lit up, like the sun breaking through the clouds.

"I said yes!"

Gwen whooped, rising from the floor like some sort of jubilant banshee to wrap her arms round Martha's neck. Ianto, too, moved in for the hug. Jack sat there, silently, then, walked slowly to the back of the room. It was only when the three finished rejoicing that they even noticed him, stood there, seemingly motionless, back to them.

Gwen, "Jack?"

And then he turned. He was smiling, and, in his outstretched hands, a bottle of champagne. He popped the cork.

Not too long after, as Gwen and Martha boogied down on desks in the middle of the Hub and Jack threw up slices of pizza to Myfanwy as she circled the lift, Ianto wound his way over to the bathroom. Unisex, of course.

As he leant against a sink, the world weaving around him, Ianto looked up at his reflection in the mirror. He, Ianto Jones, was in a serious relationship with Captain Jack Harkness, an immortal alien from the 51st Century, and he was pretty sure he loved him. Then again, he was very drunk. He had a sneaking suspicion that the bottle Jack had removed from his safe had been more than doubly fermented wine. Ianto had always been something of a lightweight, but, as the room seemingly took up tap dancing, he was pretty sure something was off.

The floor seemed to tilt below him, the walls to lean, and there the thrum of power, deeper than electricity. His vision convulsed, his own face seemingly arcing outwards from the centre of the glass, as the pressure built. His head throbbed, his mouth was parched, and he held on to the porcelain bowl as if to stop himself spinning off the face of the world.

A flash of white lit up the bathroom

and, of a sudden, he was lying down, slumped against the tiled wall.

"Ianto?"

Jack was leaning over him, his face somewhere between concern and bemusement. Lifting him under the arms, Jack helped Ianto up, gesturing for him to sit. Ianto shook his head.

"I think I'm fine now".

Nevertheless, Jack sat down in the corner and nodded for him to do the same. Feeling strangely sober, his mind clear and movement steady, Ianto joined him, resting his head in Jack's lap. As Jack stroked his hair, Ianto smiled drowsily. As he felt himself slip into a doze, a memory filtered to the surface of his thoughts.

Concerned through sleepiness, "Jack…"

"Yeah, 'Anto?"

"The woman, Caitlin, before she died, she said there wasn't much time left in the world. What do you think she meant?"

Jack sighed fitfully in response, the sound of a man who had seen it all before, would see it all again, and would go on and on, till time itself had given up on clocks. He kissed Ianto gently on the brow.

"I guess we'll find out, Ianto. I guess we'll see".

***

Nine Months Later…

A hillside at night, alone.

It was cold and clear, and the sky was a sea of stars. Jack, however, paid them no heed. Soon he would be amongst them and away from this rock, which was too small on which to bury all his sins.

So many dead. So much blood on his hands. Ianto, oh God, Ianto. They both had died, together, in each other's arms. Jack had walked away, to live again, to kill again.

Steven. Just a boy. Like Owen, like Tosh, like Ianto. All just children. Gray.

He was so old, so old and so tired and he just kept on coming back. He couldn't save them, one by one they disappeared. He couldn't handle it anymore, Torchwood, the human race, any of it. Jack Harkness was going away.

After over a century of service he'd handed over responsibility. Torchwood Two: the only branch left standing. Archie, the strange little man, got everything. The tech, the data, anything that could recovered from the crater that had been the Hub, even the bodies.

Suzie, Tosh, Ianto, Gray, all still on ice. Only those already dead made it through the ordeal unscathed, shielded in the concrete of the morgue. Only the dead were beyond it all, and Glasgow, Jack decided, were welcome to them.

They were preserved among the case files – the frozen alien corpses of a dozen species, friend and foe alike; the evidence preserved of a hundred lifetimes, his and theirs – now never to be reopened. So much baggage. Flesh and bone were weight enough without memories to bind you down. He'd carried them far enough.

Never again.

He'd spent too long on Earth. Stationary. Jack needed to start moving, to get in motion, to keep moving no matter what. Not like the old days, not with an agenda or to anyone's purpose but his own, not a Time Agent, just to wander a while and try to forget. He was running away, from the fear and the shame, far from everything. Captain Jack Harkness was running away from himself.

At the base of the hill, two figures appeared, silhouettes moving slowly towards the crest. Gwen and Rhys Williams.

This was his last night in this place. There was a cold fusion freighter out there at the edge of the galaxy, or so Archie had promised him. The man spent most of the time off his face and out of his head, but he was usually pretty good when it came to the facts. Still, it was a damn long teleport and, if the coordinates were even slightly wrong, there was a not inconsiderable chance he'd end up floating about in space.

Watching his former colleague and her spouse climbing towards him, Jack laughed bitterly to himself, no mirth in it. Maybe a couple of eons in a vacuum was the best he could hope for.

For the first time since he had arrived, Jack turned his face to the heavens, to gaze at the celestial bodies amongst which he would soon be. He was beyond the Earth now, beyond a life devoid of meaning, beyond Gwen and Rhys and their unborn child.

He would not see them again.

Or so he thought.


	3. Chapter 3

**PART TWO**

**Chapter Three**

June, 2010

It had been, so far, a miserable summer. Even by British standards. The grubby white blocks of the council estate seemed to merge with the slate grey sky. It rained a little, the cold flecks speckling the back of Billy Graham's neck, as he made his way home from school.

It was a Thursday afternoon in Splott and after-school swimming had just come to a close. Carrying his wet gear in a carrier bag, Billy plodded the mile or so back home. Not yet five and already twilight, he daydreamed idly about dinner. When mum got home is was meant to be bangers and mash.

Mix the ketchup in with the potato. S'good.

He'd said goodbye to Mickey back at the leisure centre. Becky had gone with him as far as Budgens. Normally Billy had no problem walking home alone, but today something seemed off.

It wasn't the crap weather – he was used enough to that – or that he was still slightly damp from the pool. Whatever it was prickled the hair on Billy's arms and forced his stomach into flip-flopping. He wanted to run but it took all his effort just to keep in motion at all.

The strangest thing was that he didn't even feel scared.

He passed under the small half-moon bridge, moving along the wide tunnel, which ran below the train tracks. The tarmac was slippery underfoot, and, lurching forward, Billy almost fell.

They said a young lady had been murdered there fifty years before, a woman named Lizzie Lewis. She had been seventeen years old, almost twice his age; still, close enough to force him out into the open all the quicker, however much his limbs seemed to try to hold him back.

Billy just wanted to get home.

It was a bit like he had taken a slug out of the liquor cupboard, the one he'd been told by no means ever to go into. Still, it had been his dad's favorite, so he thought he'd give it a try.

He didn't like it. It had stung his throat, made his eyes water, and then he threw up. Billy just guessed he was doing it wrong.

He passed under the concrete arch and back out into the fading sunlight.

Maybe it was aliens.

His cousin Scott claimed they had been visiting Earth for centuries, or at very least since the early 1960s. He said that it had been an alien spaceship that crashed into Big Ben when Billy was really little; that three Christmas in a row, London, sometimes the whole world, had almost been destroyed by aliens.

Heck, shop dummies had come alive, attacking and killing a bunch of shoppers right in the middle of London, and no one ever heard about it. It was almost too unbelievable to be true.

Scott was a bit of a nutter, but it was a lot easier to believe since that thing with the killer pepper pots and the strange planets in the sky. Loads of people went on about mass hallucination and natural phenomena, and other stuff that would make you sound intelligent and get you on the telly. Billy didn't believe it, one bit.

He'd lost his dad to those things.

Only a couple of minutes more to go and he'd back at the flat. Chill on the couch for a bit before doing his homework. Wasn't due in till next week, anyway. If Lucy had gotten back from college she might even play the Xbox with him.

Passing along the high brick wall, Billy turned onto the estate

and found there was nothing.

The whole tower block. Just

gone

***

"So then, did you hear about what happened over in Splott? A whole bloody council estate, 'poof', just disappears into thin air. What you're left with is a great empty field and some weirdo dressed in period costume. Tarted up in some sort of medieval garb. They hauled him down to the nick, can't get a word out of him, just keeps rambling on in French, and not proper French – bit a contradiction in terms that, 'proper French' – no, but he keeps on going on in some sort 'Olde Worlde' dialect. And, get this: he's only carrying a bloody bow and arrow!"

"That's great, Andy."

Andy Davidson's face creased up in an expressive frown, pushing his protrusive ears out even further from a mop of red hair.

"It's lovely and all to have you back, Gwen Cooper. God knows I missed you swanning around with Torchwood and everything, but that doesn't give you the right to be bloody rude."

"Andy,"

Gwen spun the wheel harshly to the right.

"It's been a bloody long day, what with those dickheads at the skate park, and now I've got to go home and look after Owen. He's teething, again. You've been motor mouthing the last twenty minutes and…"

The police car lurched to a stop at the lights. Closing her eyes for a moment, Gwen forcibly relaxed into herself. A long moment passed, then, softly,

"Do you still miss it? Not being able to help with stuff like that, I mean?"

Smiling gently, Gwen turned to her partner.

"Yes, Andy, I do."

Then she grinned, cheeky.

"But that doesn't mean I'm not bloody glad to be back on the force!"

Reaching up for the high-five, Andy beamed. Sitting back in the passenger seat, he continued, slyly,

"And how does Rhys feel about playing stay-at-home dad?"

"Oh, you know, pretty good, all things considered. It's just temporary, until his business takes off and everything."

"Not like your getting that big Torchwood paycheck anymore, is it?"

"No, Andy. It's not."

Luckily, the radio chose that point to break in.

IC1, male. Drunk and disorderly. Indecent exposure. Bay area.

They found him near the Millennium Centre. Driving past the newly rebuilt Roald Dahl Plass, just the same as it was before, no sign that Torchwood had ever left, Gwen averted her eyes. Then she saw him. About six feet tall, one hundred and eighty pounds, dark hair, muscular build, and without a stitch on him.

"Andy…"

Gwen tapped him on the shoulder.

"Bloody hellfire."

Nodding curtly, Gwen turned off the road and the police car pulled into the alleyway, after the naked man.

Coming to the end of the backstreet, they came to a stop by a skip, exiting the vehicle. Meanwhile, the suspect was apparently trying to pick the lock on the back door of a restaurant, without much luck.

"Sir…"

The man turned.

"Can you please – Jesus…"

Jack Harkness, feral and afraid. His lips drew back in a snarl, his eyes drawn and savage. Then, recognition.

"Gwen."

He moved towards her, hand outstretched, reaching desperately for the one human being with whom he had any connection, then he was gone, vanishing from existence as though he had fallen between the cracks of the world. Where he had stood, released from his grasp, was a leather wrist-strap with a small metal device built in to it, only proof he had ever been there.

"Gwen. What the bloody hell was that?"

She stared at the spot where her former boss and friend had stood just an instant before, unblinking.

"I don't know, Andy. I don't know."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"Gwen? Gwen..?"

"What?"

She glanced up, startled. Rhys stood in the kitchen doorway, apron round his waist.

"You've been staring at that bloody thing since yesterday evening."

"So?"

Rhys frowned at the defensiveness in her tone, an enormous teddy bear in a pinafore. Usually that would have at least elicited a smile from Gwen, but today she was too preoccupied to even notice.

"So, put it down for five minutes, come and have some tea."

A long moment passed. Then,

"Your dinner's burning."

"What?!"

Spinning in place, Rhys noticed the thick, dark smoke pouring from the room behind him.

"Oh, bugger it!"

As he rushed back into the kitchen to prevent the impeding conflagration, Gwen turned her attentions back to the vortex manipulator.

"Bloody hell!"

Once more, Rhys appeared in the doorway, still in his apron, now with additional oven mitts, holding a cooking tray full of an indistinguishable blackened mess.

"The duck a l'orange is completely bollixed."

Or that might have been "bollocksed."

Gwen wasn't really paying attention. Still distracted by the complex array before her, she was fascinated and yet utterly frustrated in how key the thing seemed to be the promise to saving Jack, yet that she daren't touch anything for fear of blowing a hole in the universe.

"Gwen? Jesus, you're doing it again!"

"Doing what, Rhys?" There was a spite that took her somewhat aback, even more so than it did Rhys.

"Shutting down, cutting yourself off, from me, from Owen." He thrust his arm furiously in the direction of the crib in which a black-haired infant lay soundly asleep.

"Rhys, yesterday my former boss, my friend, was wandering naked around the streets of Cardiff. When I tried to help him he vanished into thin air."

"He left you, Gwen."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

There was a deadly calm in her voice, like storm clouds gathering. Rhys paused, breathing raggedly through his teeth; his usually cheery eyes were sharpened with an anger, which seemed alien beyond measure.

"You know fucking well what I mean."

They say the truth will set you free. It is the lies, however, the small pretenses, the little mercies, which hold us together.

Gwen rose a the thunderhead breaking, surging up from the couch. Her hand was raised to slap him before she took the first step. On the second, she slammed the object down on the coffee table on her way past. On the third step, a hole tore in the fabric of reality.

A golden fissure appeared in the centre of the room, at about waist height, only as wide as a couple of feet. It was lucky, therefore, that Jack shot through it horizontally.

Even as Gwen turned, he flew backwards, caromed off the fireplace, and hit the carpet, then lay perfectly still.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."

The vortex sealed itself as if inhaling, leaving the battered and bloody Jack Harkness, still naked, on their floor. Their argument cut short by more pressing matters, Gwen was at his side in an instant; Rhys knelt behind her, his hand on her shoulder, all animosity gone.

"Jack… Jack…"

"Is it safe to move him?"

"I don't know, Rhys. I just –" A broken syllable issued from her mouth, followed by a shuddering gasp. All this, after so long, in one day.

"It's okay, Gwen."

Embracing her, Rhys put an arm over her shoulder and brought Gwen close. She squeezed his hand in recompense, biting her lip.

"I'll get him some water".

Rhys was halfway risen, when Jack spoke, almost inaudibly, strained and weary.

"Stronger would be better."

When they got him on the couch, Rhys poured him a double. Then had one himself, as did Gwen. They knew from experience: this was only the beginning.

***

It was only the next morning that Jack was in a fit state to really talk. He could stand at ground zero of a nuclear blast and still stroll away from it, given enough time, but being rag-dolled through the stuff of reality itself still left its mark.

Gwen had stared at him, passed out on the couch under a blanket, ruggedly handsome even under the seamy swelling, almost regretfully, before turning in for the night.

By the time she woke up at half nine, her bed was already empty. A note on his pillow from Rhys said he was nipping down to the shops. The sum of their most recent trip down there now sat in a dish on the kitchen counter, thoroughly cremated after the previous night's culinary experiment.

Rhys had signed it with a kiss.

After everything, he trusted her. Enough so to leave her alone with the wounded hero in the living room. Pulling on jeans and a t-shirt, Gwen sighed to herself.

Prat though so often he was, she did bloody love that man.

When she slipped into the living room to check up on him, Jack was already awake, pulling on one of Rhys' t-shirts over a pair of baggy grey sweatpants. As she entered, Jack looked up at her. from tying a knot in the front of his very loose trousers.

"I see he's lost weight."

"Oi, that's my man you're talking about."

Jack smirked. Gwen grinned. She joined him on the settee. They sat in silence, then she leant over and gave him a brief hug, simple and unemotional.

"Is that it?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Is that it? I mean, you haven't seen me in, what? Nine months?"

"Over a year, Jack."

"What?"

"I… we… haven't seen you in over a year."

"Ah. Time flies when you're having fun. Or not."

Staring at him quizzically, Gwen tried for a weak smile.

"How long were you out there?"

He shrugged minutely,

"A while. Hard to tell. Time's relative, especially when you are."

"What?"

"Relative."

One eyebrow raised, perfect Hollywood smile. Classic Jack. Gwen had missed that, more than she imagined.

His face had healed perfectly, without any indication of the ravages it had undergone; his right forearm, however, had been stripped almost to the bone. The muscle had already begun to form back over it, knitting itself neatly together even as Gwen watched.

"Gwen, I'd kill for a cup of coffee."

A short interval later, from within the kitchen, Gwen called out.

"How'd you take it again?"

"No milk. As much sugar as you've got. Thanks."

Ladling sugar into the mug with a tablespoon, Gwen brought it to him. With a nod of gratitude, Jack drained it in a single gulp.

"Thanks. Do you have any food. Not sure how long it's been since I last ate."

"Sorry. Rhys is out on a shop at the minute. Nothing left in after last night."

"Duck a l'orange," Gwen added, explanatory.

Jack nodded, absently, "Thought I smelt something burning." That smile, again. It had been a long while since she'd seen that, even before Jack had left Planet Earth for destinations unknown.

"What the hell happened to you?"

"Infinity, mostly."

The front door opened and in came Rhys, several bulging bags of shopping clasped in his grip. Strapped to his broad chest was the baby carrier with Owen in it, gazing around, apparently quite content.

"Hello, Jack."

"Hello, Rhys."

Moving into the kitchen, Rhys put down the bags on the solid oak table, lifted Owen from the carrier and placed him in the high chair, before turning back to face them.

"I hope you've decided to stay a bit longer, Jack. Don't want you flying around like that."

"How could I resist with such genial company? Heard about the duck a l'orange. Maybe stick to fish and chips in the future."

Rhys moved towards the seated man, slowly. Jack stood to meet him.

"Oh, Jack, and, by the way, that was my nan's vase you smashed on the mantelpiece, that was. Hope you've got the money to pay for it, what with being unemployed and all."

"Rhys —"

"That's alright, Gwen. Yeah, sure, Rhys, just let me… no, sorry, must have left my wallet in my other pants."

Stood less than a meter away from each other, face to face, both eyeing the other reproachfully, it seemed that head-to-head might soon be to follow. Jack grinned, perhaps the third time in as many minutes. Rhys followed suite, dragging him into a manly bear hug.

"It's good to see you, man."

"You too, Rhys, you too."

When they were finished, Rhys joined them on the couch.

Conversationally, "So, Jack what's brought you back across the Milky Way to visit us?"

"Apart from the local color? The end of the world. Universe, in fact."

"Oh."

"We'd best get a move on."

***

Twenty minutes later, the three of them were in Rhys' van, on their way out of town.

"Jack, so where are we going exactly?"

"Just keep heading west on the Port Road."

"How long is it going to take?"

"Maybe an hour and a half."

"Who are we going to see?"

"An old friend."

"What sort of an old friend?"

"An old friend who knows what to do."

"Do about what?"

"The fragmentation of the space-time nexus vis-à-vis a pre-existing causal fault."

Without missing a beat, "So, basically, a scientist who knows about the Rift and why it's causing all of this —"

"Not all of this. Just the localized stuff. No way the Rift could have yanked me around like that. No, it's more, just, acting as a focal point at this end."

"Things like that council estate disappearing? I'm guessing it's going to get worse before it gets better."

"Gwen, if Professor Hobson can't help us figure out what the hell is going on and how the hell we stop it, there's not going to be any better. Not ever. Period."

"Are you sure it had nothing to do with the wrist-strap?"

"What? This? This has carried me through almost a millennia over interstellar travel. Never failed me once. Well, maybe a couple of times, but this was made by the Time Agency. Lifetime guarantee."

"Yes, Jack, but your idea of a lifetime maybe somewhat different than the norm."

"What the bloody hell's taking so long? I mean, I know it's a Saturday and everything, but come on."

"Trust me. It's not the vortex manipulator. It's taken me to the end of the universe and back, literally."

"Defensive much?"

"Hey, what the bloody hell do you think you're doing? Get the hell out of the road, you bloody fool." Judicious blaring of the horn preceded.

"Boys and their toys…"

… "I hate to be the one to mention this, but there seems to be something in the road ahead. It's very big and it's coming this way."

"Oh, shit!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

From the front and passenger seat of a Ford Transit, Rhys and Jack surveyed the creature that had materialized in the road ahead of them. From the back of the van, Gwen leant forward and joined them in staring up at an organism that had not be seen on the face of the Earth for over a hundred and fifty million years.

They hardly noticed the screaming woman from the car ahead, fleeing in the terror that had seemed to become characteristic of Torchwood assignments.

"Jack, is that… is that a T-Rex?"

Gwen's voice was perfectly level, a neurological reaction when faced with the absurdity of the situation. In her almost three years since joining Torchwood, Gwen had been possessed by an alien gas that fed on orgasmic energy, impregnated by a flesh-eating nostrovite on her wedding day, seen her friends and loved ones killed and resurrected many times. One of the office pets had been a Pterodactyl.

Good old Myfanwy.

That, however, did nothing to lessen the feeling that she had just stepped into a scene from the first 'Jurassic Park' and that she was part of the unfortunate supporting cast. Then Jack answered, he too, strangely composed, but with a wide-eyed matter-of-factness about him born of several hundred years experience across human history, sometimes multiple times at once.

"No. That would me a Megalosaurus. They've found remains of them around this area," Jack explained, without looking back, "It's like the _Tyrannosaurus Rex_'s older, meaner cousin."

"Oh, that's good then."

By what Gwen could gauge, for a while, back in the war years, there had been three Jack Harkness wandering around the world: 1) working as an operative at Torchwood in Cardiff, 2) operating as a con man in Blitz-era London, 3) cryogenically frozen in Hub storage awaiting 21st Century revival., and those were only what she knew about.

They sat in uncertain silence for a short while dragging into an eternity, watching as the Megalosaurus padded towards them, now the second vehicle in a rapidly dissipating queue of traffic.

As far as Gwen could tell, Captain Jack Harkness had been everywhere and done everything. He was probably around after the meteor hit. A single giant carnivorous lizard shouldn't provide any problems. Should it?

"Run."

"What?"

"Run."

"But I thought they couldn't see you if you stayed still." That was Rhys, more earnest in fear than his two, an irrational panic setting in after the immediate shock.

"No, that's T-Rex you're thinking of and they got that wrong as well. When I say go, go."

"Jack, what about you?"

"No count to three? No…"

"Go!"

The Transit door burst open as Gwen and Rhys charged across the asphalt and into the undergrowth which lined the roadway. The Megalosaurus, currently staring through the side window of an abandoned Renault Megane, swung to face them. Jack was right: it wasn't much like a T-Rex at all.

Though both were reptilian, the Megalosaurus had an elongated snout, which seemed better designed for gorging than the T-Rex, though that wasn't exactly a plus point for _Homo sapiens_. It also seemed to have some sort of functioning arms, unlike the withered limbs of its successor; three deadly sharp claws scritching against each other in a contorted imitation of the opposable grip. They, too, seemed capable of causing more damage than the T-Rex's equivalent. It was hard to gauge it's size versus that of an animal Gwen had seen only in the works of Steven Spielberg, but she guessed it was roughly the same. At over thirty foot tall, she doubted it would have made much difference.

All in all, Gwen would rather have gone for the T-Rex

Its flared nostrils flapping in the breeze, the Megalosaurus began to move towards them, slowly, at first, almost cautiously, rapidly picking up speed, preparing to go into a charge that would almost certainly…

It wasn't even as if any of them had a bloody gun.

Gwen shrugged into Rhys' grasp and he held her tight.

Then

"Hey, ugly."

It was at that point that Jack hit the creature square on the nose with a 2X4. How he had gotten onto its back Gwen had no idea.

***

Jack had done remarkably well.

He'd managed a second blow on the huge lizard's skull, before it even started trying to shake him off, the unexpected attack from above having apparently stunned it's reptilian brain. All-too momentarily for Gwen's liking.

Clinging on to its rough hide, it took the Megalosaurus almost thirty seconds to swing him loose. As the creature arced its tail round violently, twisting its head at the same instant, Jack was displaced with equal violence. Hurtling through the air, thirty feet up, he collided with the concrete barrier dividing the lanes. Gwen winced at the sharp crack, audible even from the other side of the road, as his spine snapped.

He lay there, bent across the divider at a sharp angle, utterly exposed. It wasn't long before the Megalosaurus, its prey helpless before it, moved in to feast.

Captain Jack Harkness was as used to pain as any man who had ever lived. He had been shot, stabbed, beaten, tortured, a thousand times over. Never before had a dinosaur dug its way through his stomach to feast on his still-living innards.

He screamed.

With the creature's back turned to him, as vulnerable as it would get, Rhys made to move out from cover. Gwen held his arm and met his gaze. Her message was implicit. Visibly deflating, Rhys retreated back, away even from her, deeper into the shrubbery, perhaps to where he could no longer hear the agonized cries of the man who could not die.

The Megalosaurus lost interest in its feast with merciful speed. After ten minutes of devouring appetite, after a few of which Jack's hoarse screams had petered out, it turned away from the supposed corpse. With an almost reproachful glance at the bushes in which Gwen and Rhys were hidden, it simply stepped over the barrier, paced across the opposite lane, moving between the various deserted cars, and disappeared between the thicker foliage on the other side.

Another problem to be dealt with at a later date. For now, there was Jack.

At this side before the dull footfalls of the creature had faded, they were at his side. While it haven't been worse that Gwen had thought, the reality was nevertheless far more terrible than the imagination.

His shirt tore open, his chest smeared in blood, his stomach a mass of gore, nevertheless, Jack stirred limply.

"Jesus."

Rhys' voice cracked.

"Why isn't he healing? Why the bloody hell isn't he healing?!"

Gwen's mind was already beyond it.

"Rhys, do you still have that first aid box in the van?"

"What?"

"Rhys, focus. The first aid box?"

"Right, yeah, I think so."

"Go and get it."

Unquestioningly, Rhys did as asked. As he rifled through the vehicle, Gwen leant over Jack, and, placing an arm gently behind his back, brought him close. Lifting him from his position splayed across the divider, Gwen began to gently lower him onto the ground.

"Let me die."

So faint she hardly heard it.

"Please, let me die."

Turning her head, Gwen stared at Jack's face, so close to hers. His eyes were closed, lips hardly moving, yet tears ran down his cheeks, his skin turned so pale and cold it was like ice melting.

"I just want it all to be over."

His breathing grew deeper, more ragged, and Gwen knew that he was, even now en route to recovery, it would never be over. The rule of the universe, the one constant she knew, was the Jack endured, had endure, did endure, would always endure. It was only those around him who were granted the promise of an end.

Or so it used to be.

Something shifted inside Gwen, like the world tumbling over, sunrise and sunset, reorienting itself around…

And then she was kissing him, and it was so good, and there was no guilt, or shame, or fear, only Jack and her in that moment, that perfect instant, forever.

It ended.

Gwen pulled away sharply, inhaling deeply as she did. Jack lay there on the road, back to the barrier, no change in his condition, save a touch of serenity upon him.

"Here you go, Gwen. It was under the, uh, flooring of all places."

She smiled at Rhys inanely as he popped open the small box, removing the thick roll of bandages. As Gwen watched, a dread weight settling upon her, the knowledge of a secret she would bear, a truth that must remain untold, a guilty memory tainted by paranoia,

Rhys swathed the wound as best he could. Rhys was a poor medic, Gwen admittedly little better, but that was irrelevant right now.

It would be a brief mercy if he were to die. At least then his wounds would heal almost instantly. The wound was bloody and horrific, but it would not be immediately fatal.

Something was wrong with Jack. Something was wrong with the universe.

Clenching his teeth in agony, Jack whispered throatily

"Get me back in the van. We need to get moving."

They had a long day ahead of them. Maybe the longest day in three long years.


End file.
